Checkmate
by Clarounette
Summary: Pre-DoFP, canon. After being convicted of JFK's murder, Erik has been jailed. But he soon received the visit of an old friend. A weird game of chess took place.


"Hello, Erik," said a too familiar voice behind him. Only one of the corners of his mouth stretched into a painful smile. He'd been here for a little over a year. Square room with dark grey walls, one small window, a heavy wooden door – they didn't dare put him in a cell with an iron door after what they witnessed at his trial – and a table and a single bed. Wood too for both, of course. No roommate for the most dangerous man in the world. During this year, no one had visited him. Until now.

He hadn't seen Charles since the trial. It had been their first meeting since the fiasco on the beach. Well, they hadn't really met. Charles had sat in the middle of the crowd with Hank, watching the show they made of the proceeding. Erik had looked at him out of the corner of his eye. They hadn't talked to each other. The man had looked well enough, although a perpetual frown had left a crease on his brow. He supposed he was responsible for that too. As well as the wheelchair Charles had been sitting on. The feeling of its metal structure had made his fingers twitch.

A wheelchair he couldn't feel at the moment. Curious, he turned around, a look of wonder on his tired face. So that was the reason.

* * *

Charles remembered the slender figure, now standing in front of him in a grey uniform in the middle of a grey room. Grey on grey, barely visible. The ghost of the man he had known. Something else was grey too : Erik's mind, devoid of love, hope or empathy. But just before he turned around, a sparkle of worry lit up in that empty space, whispering his name. '_Charles..._'

Feigning he didn't see the surprised look on Erik's face, he rolled his plastic wheelchair to the table, where he lay down the chessboard he had brought. "What do you say to a game ? For old time's sake ?" he asked gleefully. But there was no glee in his heart. Only pain and anger. And fear. That last one was harder to admit. Who could blame him ? Erik was a killer.

The man joined him at the table, sitting on a wooden stool, agreeing silently to their last game of chess. Probably. Erik was playing White – oh, the irony – and moved his first piece.

* * *

Erik took the plastic wheelchair as a slight. Could Charles not trust him not to harm him ? Even as he thought it, he realized how stupid he was. Of course Charles wouldn't trust him. Wasn't Erik the man who sent a bullet through his spine, putting him in this abomination in the first place ?

He had also stolen the most important thing in his friend's life : his beloved sister. Sure, she had come with him quite willingly, but he had played his game well. The right words at the right moment. He had wanted her – as an ally, nothing else – as soon as he had witnessed her true form, and he had won her. No doubt hurting Charles in the process. Had it been more painful than the bullet ? Erik thought so.

"Pawn to c4."

* * *

Erik's calm was grating on his nerves. Wasn't he ashamed of what he had done ? Charles looked at the game and thought for a second : what had Erik done, exactly ? He couldn't take into account his spine's injury. Erik wasn't entirely responsible for this one – although the way he had deflected Moira's bullets had been stupid.

Raven leaving him ? It would have happened sooner or later. Charles was even ready to admit his faults, after so many months reflecting on his behavior. He had answered to her ask for freedom with more rules, to her love with friendship. She had always wanted too much from him that he couldn't offer.

Humans' hate for mutants had been unavoidable too. No matter what Erik had done on that beach. Once the secret was out, a time of oppression and segregation waited around the corner. Erik alone had foreseen the result of them helping the CIA. The hunt. The hiding. The tests. The deaths – Azazel, Angel, Riptide. And so many more whom he didn't know.

Charles took the bishop in his hand. "Do you know how the French name this piece ? _Le fou_. It means..."

"The fool," Erik interrupted.

"Yes. Bishop on f5." He stared at Erik's face. Which one of them had been a fool ?

* * *

Charles' eyes on him made him uneasy. Was he searching through his mind ? Erik was terrified of what he would find. His anger, his plans. His failures.

One of them had ended with him in a cell. A regular criminal except for the special "no wood, no roommate" treatment. But he was innocent. Could it be the reason Charles had come to see him ? To find out if he was as despicable as he thought he was ?

A sad smile appeared on his lips at the thought. Charles raised an eyebrow and sent a question with his power – without touching his temple, Erik noticed. '_Are you alright ?_' Erik had felt his presence in his head, had felt the crawling sensation of a ghostly finger searching around.

"Don't !"

Charles lowered his eyes, as if ashamed.

"Rook on d3." Erik announced. He waited for Charles to move the next piece. After a while, when he didn't, Erik talked again : "Is that why you're here ? To know if I killed him ?"

* * *

Charles didn't know what to answer to that. It had been in his mind – as had been so many things that he had forgotten half of them before he even entered the cell. Why had he come exactly ? He was an optimist maybe he hoped to save Erik. From himself, from his ideals, from his means.

After Cuba, Charles had been able to create a new life. Surrounded by the kids – Alex, Hank and Sean – he had projects, ideas. What had Erik ? A group of ungrateful mutants who had abandoned him as soon as he was condemned. He was almost ashamed that Raven, the girl he had raised for so long, was amongst them. But it seemed that he had never really known her. That he had failed with her – as with Erik.

"Why JFK, Erik ?" Of course, he could pluck the reason out of Erik's mind and the man would be none the wiser. But he had promised. A long time ago. Waiting for an answer, Charles moved his knight.

* * *

Erik realized that no answer would satisfy Charles. He was dead set on his culpability. Erik had too many skeletons in his closet to not be responsible for that last one. Erik couldn't even argue with that. He was a murderer. Had been long before he even met Charles. It hurt him to know that he had somehow lead him on in believing that there was good in him.

"Sorry, Charles." Sorry for your spine. Sorry for your pain. Sorry for this lousy world that keeps on disappointing you.

They finished the game in silence. None of them won. That would be forever their lot : face to face, questionning each other's moves, but not able to decide who was right. Maybe their _raison d'être_ lay somewhere else. In the fact, for instance, that Charles would visit him. And that Erik would be happy to see him.

* * *

Once Charles had left, Erik teared down the room in frustration, searching for the tiniest metal particles in his reach, reducing the dark grey walls to shreds. They moved him in a new cell. That would be the second in a long row.

The next time they would see each other, Erik would be in a plastic cell deep under the pentagone. And Charles would break him out. He still had hope, after all.


End file.
